


Le doux reflet d’une étoile

by Zdenka



Series: Femslashficlets Language of Flowers Prompt Table 2018 [2]
Category: Don Carlos | Don Carlo - Verdi/du Locle/Méry
Genre: F/F, Unresolved Sexual Tension, background canon relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 02:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16653001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: Princess Eboli stands close beside her Queen, and wishes to be closer; but she fails to guess what is in Élisabeth's heart.





	Le doux reflet d’une étoile

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the femslashficlets Language of Flowers prompt table challenge: tulip, meaning "royalty and a regal nature" (purple tulip). Yellow tulips also signify unrequited or spurned love.
> 
> _Le doux reflet d’une étoile_ \- "The sweet reflection of a star." From a line Eboli sings at the beginning of Act III in the unrevised French version of the opera.

The Queen does not smile often. King Philip’s newly-married third wife goes through her days with a somber air, with a dignified rustling of black skirts, her pale face framed by a stiff white ruff. Daily, she kneels in prayer with apparent sincerity.

It makes Eboli want to tease her—provoke her—anything, to see the Queen’s eyes light up with joy or anger. All her instincts tell her that the Queen has deeper feelings in her heart than she is willing to reveal. Eboli exerts all her charm, her wit, her knowledge of the Court. She sings, brilliantly. She easily captures the attention of the Queen’s ladies; they surround her, watching her with admiration, delight, jealousy. She smiles at the Queen’s young page, and he almost falls in the fountain. But the Queen is unmoved.

The Queen does not reprove Eboli’s levity, but neither does she praise her. When Eboli coaxes a brief smile from her, it feels like a victory.

In a Court where the Grand Inquisitor wields power, where the King defends the True Faith with fire and sword, it is prudent to show at least an outward piety. Eboli kneels obediently behind the Queen, but her thoughts are not lifted up to Heaven. When she hears the priest singing his _Kyrie eleison_ , her lips give the proper responses, but invisible in the folds of her skirts, her fingers tap out the rhythm of a Moorish song. She sees the Queen’s cold white hands folded around her prayer-book and thinks of clasping them, chafing them back to warmth.

The Queen’s gaze is fixed on Heaven, and—when she must—on the King, her manner dutiful and obedient. If the Queen has no smiles and bright glances for Eboli, it seems she likewise has none for any hopeful lover. It is strange—an unusual mistake—for the Queen to be caught alone by the King, without a lady present to attend her as the rule of the Court requires. What secrets was she whispering with the Infante, to be worth so great a risk?

_You should have trusted me,_ Eboli thinks as she follows silently behind the Queen. _I would have kept better guard. I would be your messenger, your confidante—the keeper of your passions—_

The Queen weeps, when the Countess of Aremberg leaves the Court. It is the first time Eboli has seen her show so much emotion. But it hardly matters, she tells herself. With the Countess banished, the Queen will turn to Eboli. She must, for Eboli is always there at her side, always ready to obey the Queen’s wishes almost before they are uttered. Her Queen—her strangely virtuous Queen, moving pure and untouched in the midst of this merciless, mercenary Court. Eboli will keep her safe.

Eboli is beside her on the night of the masquerade. The sweet and plaintive music of mandolins sounds in the distance; the gardens are perfumed with the scent of flowers. The Queen leans closer and murmurs, “Come, Eboli.” Eboli follows her, into the shadow of some flowering trees; they can be seen only as two darker shapes in the darkness.

“The festival has scarcely begun,” the Queen says softly, “and already I am weary. I wish to pray, as the King is doing tonight. Here—” She slips off her mask, her long veil, and the royal necklace glittering with jewels. “Wear my mask and veil, my dear; they will think you are me.” Eboli curtsies low and takes them from the Queen’s hands.

Slowly, she places the mask over her face—the mask that has pressed against the Queen’s own face—and ties the ribbons. Next the necklace, still warm from resting upon the Queen’s breast. Last, the veil—and the transformation is complete. Eboli caresses the delicate fabric of the veil, draws it across her lips. When she leaves these shadows, she will be the queen of these enchanted revels. She feels joyous laughter bubbling up inside her. The music of the mandolins calls her; a star’s reflection wavers in the fountain. Eboli wraps herself in the mannerisms of the Queen, imitating her voice and straight posture and melancholy air, and goes to reign over the dance.


End file.
